


The Cat That Got The Cream

by BeautifulFiction



Series: Cat Among The Pigeons [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cat Ears, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-15 14:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16065428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulFiction/pseuds/BeautifulFiction
Summary: "Most lovers would be intent on what lay below the belt – fixated on the obvious. No doubt they had good cause for such fascination, but Sherlock wanted to know every inch of the man who had come to mean so much to him. He wanted to explore each ridge of bone and supple hollow of flesh. A banquet of information stretched before him – a feast so plentiful that he could not decide where to begin."





	The Cat That Got The Cream

_"If someone looks like the cat that got the cream, they look satisfied and happy with themselves because they have been successful or done something of which they are proud."_

* * *

John.

He flooded Sherlock’s senses, reducing the world to a blissful kaleidoscope. The taste of him flitted across Sherlock’s tongue. Tingling tremors followed the skim of John’s fingers as they wove through his curls. The soft, slick sounds of their lips created an obscene little melody, heating Sherlock’s blood as John’s weight pressed down on him.

The sofa creaked in protest, but Sherlock paid it no mind. He was too busy discovering all the delightful noises John made in response to his touch. 

Clothes still separated them, their buttons prim and proper. Thick wool scraped across Sherlock’s palms as he traced the path of John’s spine: a mere hint of strength beneath too many layers. The sharp line of John’s waistband interrupted his exploration, and he switched direction, charting the denim’s boundary before gripping John’s hips and arching up into him.

The tease of friction intensified, and their twin groans harmonised in the flat’s quiet air. The kiss broke as John bowed his head, every breath torn from him as Sherlock moved in a steady rhythm, half torture, half temptation.

‘Oh God, Sherlock. That’s – that’s good.’ 

He made a rough noise of agreement, keening when John pressed forward, matching the grind. Burnished pleasure danced along his veins, and he threw back his head, eyes closed and lips parted in a desperate quest for air. Not that his body seemed to have much interest in breathing. John had subsumed all of that. He was the only thing that mattered anymore: his pulse, his skin, the yield of his waist and the hardness between his legs.

Of course, there were better places for such activities than a leather couch. Perhaps John’s hand slipped, or he cocked his knees too wide in his search for more. All Sherlock knew was a weightless moment of surprise, the spin of the room and then the dazed sprawl of John beneath him.

Laughter bubbled in his chest, impossible to suppress. John’s expression – genuine confusion, as if he were too lust-addled to understand what had happened – was priceless. His rueful chuckle matched Sherlock’s mirth, and he shook his head in disbelief. ‘Mrs Hudson will wonder what on earth we’re up to.’

‘I doubt she’ll bat an eyelash,’ Sherlock murmured. ‘She’s heard stranger sounds coming from up here and never bothered to investigate.’ He traced his fingers along John’s arms, encircling his wrists in his grasp before pinning them above John’s head. It was the lightest of restraints. John could break out of it in a heartbeat, but he made no move to do so. 

John’s breath hitched, his tongue skating over the thin line of his lips. His pupils, already dilated, burgeoned further, leaving a halo of blue at their rim. 

He looked good enough to eat, spread out for Sherlock’s enjoyment. A nudge of his nose against John’s jaw made him shift his head, exposing the humid haven of his pulse. Sherlock revelled in the taste of him: salt and life. John’s growl of approval, low and wanton, was almost as arousing as his absolute trust that Sherlock would not harm him.

Grinning, Sherlock smudged kisses up his throat, wild and wicked. Yet he was not the only one losing themselves. John may be pinned beneath him, but he was far from submissive.

Denim rasped against Sherlock’s thighs, and in one graceful move, John had scissored their legs, twining them impossibly close. Every snatched gasp of tropical air made Sherlock’s head spin. He moaned as John took charge of the rhythm, smoothing the ragged edges of Sherlock’s urgency and deepening his desire.

‘Ah!’ Sherlock clenched his jaw, trying to get himself under control. He refused to ruin his underwear like some over-eager teenager. At some point, unheeded by his own mind, he had released John’s wrists, propping his weight on his elbows and shuddering hard.

‘Bed,’ he rasped, his tongue thick. He tried to marshal his concentration, but John derailed his efforts with a sensuous roll of his hips. ‘Bed, now. Carpet burns are not my idea of fun.’

John grinned, tipping his head back and eyeing the intervening space to the bedroom door. From where they lay, the few feet may as well have been miles. ‘You’ll have to get off me,’ he pointed out, reaching up a hand to stroke the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck before pulling him down, enthralling him with the decadent taste of his mouth.

Sherlock’s entire body ached at the thought of putting space between them, even for a minute, but neither he nor John were as young as they used to be. Spending too long on the floor would cripple them both, and besides, Sherlock wanted to at least try and savour this.

With a groan, he peeled himself away and staggered to his feet. The room wobbled as his erection throbbed, but he clenched his teeth against its demands. Blinking his vision clear, he paused, enraptured by the sight before him. John was attractive whatever his state, but right now he looked positively debauched. Blue eyes burned, and his hair stuck up in all directions, mauled by Sherlock’s fingers. Swollen lips gleamed from his attentions, and a heady flush darkened John’s skin.

‘Coming?’ Sherlock asked. 

‘I bloody well hope so.’ A sultry grin swelled John’s cheeks and, knees clicking, he climbed to his feet. A quick tug at his jeans demonstrated their confinement, and Sherlock itched to reach out – to cup his palm around that hardness and watch John come undone beneath his touch. Yet before he could act on the urge, John gripped his wrist and tugged him along, guiding him in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom.

‘Not upstairs?’ Sherlock’s eloquence was a distant memory. Besides, it might be dangerous to expand upon his query. He had assumed John would want their first encounter to be in his own territory; somewhere Irene had never set foot. 

‘God, no. Too far.’ John pulled him over the threshold, and before he knew it, Sherlock found himself backed up against the door, its closing thud shuddering through his body. Immediately, John’s weight pressed against him: a blessing, not a burden. Without a thought, Sherlock sagged, reducing his height so he could better enjoy the hunger of John’s kiss. 

Clumsy fingers clutched at clothes, plucking on hems and buttons but getting nowhere. Sherlock almost sobbed in frustration, his ears flat against his curls as he dropped his head back against the door. Ridiculous, really, how hands that could coax perfection from the violin were rendered so graceless when confronted with such a simple task.

The flash of blunt, human teeth against his skin shattered his thoughts. A gasp hitched his chest as a darker wave of want flooded through him. The choked melody of his moan deepened, becoming an approving groan as John nipped and sucked, bruising the pale flesh over Sherlock’s pulse. 

He wondered if John had done his research, or whether pure instinct drove his actions. Society tended to view love bites as juvenile – the brazen act of teenagers – but to a Felisian, a bite held extra power. Nerves ignited with shivering heat, deepening the primitive urge to mate. It was a loss of control that, in the past, would have caused Sherlock to retreat, making his excuses and fleeing the presence of a potential partner.

But now…

He clasped John’s biceps, his spine twisting with a dancer’s lithe grace as he switched their positions. John barely had a chance to blink in surprise before Sherlock grabbed the hem of his jumper, concentrating all of his intelligence on the simple act of peeling it from John’s body. Flinging it aside, he pressed his full weight forwards, humming happily as John arched up to meet him.

This time, the kiss they shared was slow and deep, conducted by the stroke of wandering hands. He could sense, on the edge of his awareness, John tracing the notches of his spine. He did not treat Sherlock as if he were something alien, as others had done. Instead, every gesture, every whispered word, every sigh… John made him feel like a work of art.

Tugging John’s shirt free from his jeans, he dipped his hand beneath the cheap cotton, his anticipation fading into disbelief as he found not bare skin, but the well-worn fabric of a t-shirt. Pulling back, he raised an eyebrow. ‘Why are you wearing so many clothes?’ he demanded, not caring if he sounded like a petulant child.

‘It’s _winter_.’ John grinned, shaking his head and kissing Sherlock’s jaw. ‘And I’ve been out in it, rather than hunched over a microscope in a nice, cosy flat.’ He gave the shirt Sherlock wore a speculative look, his gaze lingering on the open vee of his collar. As if hypnotised, John wet his lips, reaching out one finger to trail it over the petite, intricate buttons that hid Sherlock’s chest from view.

‘You need to – I…’ John trailed off, all trace of humour gone. ‘Get that off,’ he ordered, his hands already plucking his own buttons free from their restraints. ‘I mean it, get that off or I’ll rip it; I don’t care how much it cost.’

A shiver thrilled down Sherlock’s spine, stirred to life by the command in John’s voice. Of course, Captain Watson was never far from the surface, but John rarely let through more than a glimpse. 

Briefly, Sherlock considered disobedience. Perhaps if his shirt were not one of his best, he would have thrown caution to the wind. Instead, he did as he was bid, never taking his eyes from John as his parted collar widened.

Sherlock’s shirt fell to the floor, its whispered farewell unheeded. How could he focus on anything so banal when John stood before him, unveiled from the waist up? Skin, paler than that of his hands and face, painted the canvas for dusky nipples and a scattering of hair so blond it almost evaded the eye. The twisted knot of the scar on his shoulder told its story, and Sherlock longed to trace it with his tongue. 

Most lovers would be intent on what lay below the belt – fixated on the obvious. No doubt they had good cause for such fascination, but Sherlock wanted to know every inch of the man who had come to mean so much to him. He wanted to explore each ridge of bone and supple hollow of flesh. A banquet of information stretched before him – a feast so plentiful that he could not decide where to begin.

‘God, look at you.’ John reached for him as if he couldn’t resist, his hands skimming Sherlock’s sides, luring him forward towards the bed with the gentlest pressure. Sherlock followed, enthralled by the man before him. 

Dimly, he felt he should protest. Compared to John, he was unremarkable, but he knew any such claims would be met with disbelief. Beauty lay in the eye of the beholder. Besides, he liked the way John looked at him; not his ears and tail but the span of his shoulders and the line of his waist, as admiring of all his humanity as he was of Sherlock’s more exotic features.

The bed welcomed them, a dais of comfort glowing in the weak winter sun. John sprawled across the feather quilt as if he belonged there, unapologetic in his occupation as he dragged Sherlock down on top of him. 

It was one thing to explore with fingers and hands, but like this, heart to thudding-heart, Sherlock wondered if he was at risk of drowning in all that John had to offer. Not just his bold kisses and soapy scent, but the heat of his body and the strength of his bones. All of it – all that data – and he could not help but be gloriously overwhelmed.

He licked a stripe up John’s throat before moving lower, over the hard boundary of his collarbones to the smoothness of his scar. Beneath his lips, the change in texture was obvious: the wound’s mark a web of spun silk and hidden hardness. Fascinating, but no more so than the rest of John.

Chest hair tickled Sherlock’s cheek, and he smiled, nuzzling at it before catching a nipple in his mouth. Sucking carefully, he shifted the pressure, revelling in the refrain of John’s appreciation. Gasps punctuated his low moans, and the scrape of teeth made John buck his hips in blatant demand.

One hand splayed across Sherlock’s waist while the other curled in his hair. Every breath framed wordless praise, and the rock-hard tension in John’s muscles hinted at his control. For whatever reason, he was clinging to his restraint, dialling down the demands of his desire.

That would not do at all.

Pulling away, he left John’s nipple glistening as he crawled up his body to claim his mouth. He nipped a challenge at John’s lips, shivering with delight at the immediate response. John arched as if he’d touched a live wire. Their hips connected in a powerful grind, and a moment later Sherlock was on his back, smirking as John straddled him. The columns of his denim-clad thighs bracketed his waist, putting the bulge of John’s arousal front and centre.

‘You look like the cat who got the cream.’ John tweaked one of Sherlock’s ears and grinned at the withering glare he received.

‘I refuse to answer with any kind of obvious innuendo.’ Sherlock gave a prim sniff, feigning innocence. However, the confident glide of his fingers around John’s waistband belied his words. That span of fabric was a frontier he planned to plunder. He wanted all that John had to offer.

‘These need to come off.’ He tugged at John’s fly, scowling when it resisted his efforts.

‘I thought you’d never ask.’ John bent down, giving Sherlock a rough, wet kiss before climbing off of him and standing up beside the bed. ‘You too. I can’t be dealing with whatever madness fastens those trousers of yours.’

Part of Sherlock wanted to disobey that order, just so he could watch the stunning competence with which John undressed. There were no fumbling fingers or muffled curses as he worked to take off his boots. He moved like the soldier he was, all personal efficiency and a pared-down grace that Sherlock rarely got the chance to admire.

However, more pressing desires soon overwhelmed the urge to observe. His skin ached for John’s presence, and the thought of feeling him, all of him, was more than he could resist. 

Making quick work of his shoes and socks, Sherlock undid his trousers, almost forgetting to free his tail in his haste to get them off. He wriggled them down his hips, but before his underwear could follow suit, the sight of John, magnificently nude, derailed his efforts.

Perhaps his gaze should have been drawn to the obvious, but there was more to John’s sex appeal than the arousal that stood proud between his legs. His frame was a contradiction of softness and strength. Warm nights in Sherlock’s company had written their mementos into John’s body, as easy to see as the scars of Afghanistan.

The war marked itself in a knot of tissue, more remarkable than any medal. Time with Sherlock gilded his body, filling the hollows injury had left in its wake. Lithe muscle no longer lay stark over the strong foundation of John’s bones. Lush flesh shielded them, blurring his harsh edges. Everything, from the gleam in John’s eyes to the subtle swell of his stomach spoke of sensual contentment.

Helpless, Sherlock reached for him, desperate to take him in through all his senses. Kneeling up on the bed, he murmured his approval as he snuffled at John’s chest, inhaling the clean fragrance of his skin. His hands spanned John’s ribs, holding him steady as he captured one nipple between his lips, teasing the delicate bud with the edge of his fangs.

John’s fingers slid through Sherlock’s curls, cradling his head and tracing the line where the silken fur on his ears tapered away into human tresses. Some lovers would have made the gesture demanding, a cage by which to hold him in place. John did nothing of the sort. He respected Sherlock’s strength as much as he admired his differences, and that bled through into every action.

‘You are exquisite,’ Sherlock murmured over John’s heart, pulling back a fraction so he could take in everything. Only John’s chuckle of disbelief interrupted his scrutiny, making him look up. 

A charming flush decorated John’s cheeks, and though his ridiculous modesty prevented him from accepting the compliment, at least he seemed pleased by the effort. 

It irked him that John could not understand what he meant – could only look at his body through the warped lens of society and see it lacking, As if Sherlock cared for such restrictive mores. He admired John’s body for its bold honesty. It echoed the man within, unfaltering and real.

‘You know me,’ he pointed out, looking up through his lashes, more dominant than demure. ‘I don’t do flattery.’

‘No.’ John’s fingertips trailed down Sherlock’s back, tracing their way as far as he could reach before reversing their course in a hypnotic sweep. ‘It’s just… Have you seen yourself? Next to you I’m just…’ He shrugged, the muscles beneath Sherlock’s palms losing their torpor. ‘ordinary.’

‘Wrong.’

Splaying his hands over John’s shoulders, he urged him down, spilling him back onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. Their lips found each other again, matching puzzle pieces coming together to create a greater whole, and Sherlock released the last of his restraint. 

Words were easily misconstrued. Actions were the purest form of communication, and so Sherlock let his body do the talking. Hands clutched as hips rolled and skin warmed. Before long John lay beneath him, whining in protest-cum-pleasure as Sherlock charted a line down his stomach with lips, teeth and tongue alike.

He would not apologise for wanting to know the taste of John’s most intimate places. Need consumed him, his logical mind quiescent as he answered the demands of his oft-ignored, more primal nature. 

Coarse, curled hair tickled his nose, and he nuzzled it aside, inhaling the scent at the crease of John’s groin. The tempting fragrance entwined with the sound of John’s laughter, unrestrained as he squirmed away from the ticklish contact. Only Sherlock’s fingers, banding his thighs like garters, slowed his escape, allowing him to shift lower.

John stilled. His muscles tensed, his entire body locking with anticipation. Even his breath halted in his chest, silent to Sherlock’s sensitive ears as he cupped John’s balls, admiring the heft of them within their silken skin. Yet it was the proud swell of John’s erection that demanded the majority of his attention, twitching fitfully. 

John’s voice may be mute, but his body made its demands.

Sherlock was happy to oblige.

Wrapping his hand around the base of John’s shaft, he lapped with his tongue, capturing the salty dew that glistened at its tip and cataloguing its flavour. It was not the taste that encouraged him to take John in his mouth, but his reaction.

‘Oh, God,’ John whined, propping himself up on his elbows and looking down the stretch of his body. As soon as Sherlock met his gaze, cheeks hollowed and lips full around John’s cock, he swore again, collapsing back to the pillows as if the sight was too much for his weakening restraint.

Stifling a wicked grin, Sherlock took John in a little deeper, stroking his palms over John’s hips and holding them in place. So far, John had been completely considerate, but he didn’t want to risk either of them getting hurt. After all, he was certain John had never been intimate with a Felisian of any gender, and that meant…

‘Oh, FUCK!’

Sherlock smirked, inhaling through his nose and taking John deeper before purring again. The sound was muffled, of course, but that was not the point. John was gasping, graceless, _perfect_ in his pleasure. His balls pulled up tight, and his spit-slicked cock swelled in Sherlock’s mouth, hot and heavy.

‘Sher –’ Hands skittered over his shoulders, and Sherlock’s lashes fluttered closed, relishing this chance to take in everything: the humid depths of him; the splay of his legs and the sound of his voice. 

Every aspect added to Sherlock’s intoxication. He palmed John’s backside, squeezing the full flesh none-too-gently as John moaned, the noise an odd mixture of approval and desperation.

A whisper of sheets, a shifting of weight, and Sherlock realised John was moving, his hands no longer grasping, but beckoning. ‘Get up here,’ he ordered, his voice a delicious rasp. ‘Now.’

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, the wet glide of his lips obscene as he pulled back. ‘Yes, Captain,’ he purred, a shiver of exhilaration shooting along his spine as John flashed a quick, hungry grin.

The slide of John’s leg against his own, the weight of one strong arm over his shoulder, and Sherlock found himself supine. The power of John’s strength and the ease with which he put it to use was stunning. Few lovers had ever been so blatant in going after what they wanted. Perhaps they feared Sherlock’s more animal side. John, on the other hand, had no such qualms.

‘I want to touch you,’ he whispered, pressing Sherlock back into the bed and hooking his finger in the waist of Sherlock’s underwear, stripping them off without preamble and casting them aside before straddling his hips. ‘I want to touch you _everywhere_.’

‘Yes,’ Sherlock hissed, baring his teeth as John shifted, trapping his erection where it lay against his stomach. Friction skirted the dizzying border between pleasure and pain, and Sherlock lost himself in a sea of sensation, happy to drown.

‘Beautiful.’ John’s hands traced his torso, spanning his ribs and sweeping across his chest before reversing course. ‘Every last inch of you.’ He dipped lower, towards the tropical heat where their bodies met. The broad swipe of John’s palm from base to tip made Sherlock’s toes curl. A mewl caught in his throat, and John hummed in prideful satisfaction, repeating the movement as he explored all the ways Sherlock loved to be touched.

John crawled up his body, capturing Sherlock’s mouth in a kiss that turned the world white at its edges. Every nerve thrummed, welcoming the weight of John’s frame. Any space between them was a sacrilege, and Sherlock pressed upwards as if he could somehow crawl inside John’s ribs and live there forever. It was as if he needed John’s touch more than his next breath. He craved it, and the hollowness within him – hunger but not – only grew with each passing moment.

A jumbled chaos of emotion filled him, blanking out everything but the sensation of John worshipping him. His mind, so often flung out into the wide world, instead turned inwards, captivated by the flicker of ecstasy that built in every nerve.

Then John’s hot, wet mouth descended, and the storm unfurled.

Nothing as complex as words escaped his lips. John’s talented tongue swirled over his tip, practiced in a way that Sherlock would have envied if he had a greater presence of mind. Instead, the tempest consumed him, the rage of its power centred on a striking, empty feeling deep in his belly.

John pressed his sweat-damp brow to the inside of Sherlock’s splayed thighs. ‘Do you – Do you want –?’ His fingers fluttered down and back, stroking the delicate skin behind Sherlock’s balls before circling puckered flesh. ‘Or something else?’ He felt the flicker of John’s tongue as he wet his lips, and his earnest voice seemed to echo down to Sherlock’s bones. ‘Anything. Anything. Just tell me what you want.’

Sentiment swelled beneath Sherlock’s ribs, more tender than the biting ache of lust, but just as potent. He had no doubt that John meant what he said. This was not some game; there were no ulterior motives, and John’s honesty wrote itself in every touch.

With heavy arms, Sherlock reached for his bedside drawer, pulling free lube and a condom and pressing them into John’s hands. ‘I want you in me,’ he husked, making sure to leave no room for doubt. He could not articulate the why of it. Previous lovers had not inspired such a base hunger. In truth, he had never wanted to let them know so much of him, but John? John was different in every possible way.

Sitting back on his heels, John accepted the offering. Ever the doctor, he inspected the expiration dates, an absent exhibition of the competence that Sherlock so admired. Yet there was something else, a lingering shadow of uncertainty that made Sherlock look more closely, picking out faint signs of unease. A moment later, the root of the problem became clear.

John placed the supplies to the side before reaching down and skimming his palms along Sherlock’s thighs. No delicate tease scintillated him. Instead, the gesture of comfort sent a frisson of anxiety shooting through Sherlock’s blood.

‘Have you –’ John frowned, looking as if he did not want to ask, but felt he had no choice. ‘Have you done this before?’

Sherlock sighed and stretched, not missing the way John’s mesmerised gaze followed the lines of his body. ‘Does it matter? Will my answer change your mind?’

‘God, no.’ John cleared his throat. ‘It’s just –’

He watched the tumult of uncertainty ebb as John paused, taking a moment to consider Sherlock’s words. Dawning realisation lit his features, and he cocked his head, a slow smile spreading across his lips. ‘I don’t want to hurt you, but whether you’ve done this before or not won’t matter. Not if I’m doing it right.’

Sherlock chuckled, pleased to know that John understood his answer. Experience with one lover was not something that could be applied to others. He and John had never shared a bed, and that was all that mattered. ‘I have every faith in your abilities,’ he purred, smirking as John beamed at the compliment. ‘Now come here.’

‘Bossy,’ John chided, settling between his legs. The sharpest edge of their passion may have eased, but it did not take long to hone it once more. Each clinging kiss and consuming embrace tangled them closer together, and by the time John’s lube-slick finger circled down and back, Sherlock was writhing against the bed, hungry and desperate for more.

‘Easy,’ John gasped, pressing on Sherlock’s stomach with his spare hand to hold him steady. ‘Just – just wait a minute.’

Sherlock tried to snarl a response, but the rough sound bloomed into a tight moan as John breached him. Pressure skirted towards the wrong side of pain, but he took a deep breath, forcing his body to welcome John as much as his heart and mind. 

‘Good, yeah. Yeah that’s it.’ John’s thumb rubbed the crest of his hip before he reached for more lube. ‘All right?’

‘Yes, just – just –’ Sherlock groaned, frustrated by his inability to articulate his desires. While he understood the physical limitations – the need to take things slow – his body knew of nothing but a want that must be sated. It consumed him, over-riding all discomfort until he was trembling amidst the breaking web of his own control.

Another finger, and he flung his head back, his awareness narrowing down to nothing but John’s touch. Every caress stirred new feelings to life, easing aside the aches and replacing them with crackling urgency.

At any other moment, his expression of concentration would have been amusing, but right now Sherlock could feel the benefit of his diligence. John shone his entire focus on what he was doing, and Sherlock melted beneath his ministrations as his body slowly opened.

A lightning strike of sensation, almost too intense to bear, had him crying out in shock. His heels dug into the mattress and his spine twisted, caught between the need to pull away and the urge to push closer. His thighs trembled as his chest heaved, and he tried to stop himself from flying apart at the seams.

‘Sorry,’ John whispered, pressing kisses across Sherlock’s skin. ‘Sorry. Too much?’

Sherlock’s garbled response offered no real answer, but John eased his caress, circling with care and watching his reactions like a hawk. 

Within a few tentative minutes, he had Sherlock sighing in pleasure, balancing the tightrope of rapture without ever succumbing to his release. Of course, John was a fast learner, Sherlock never suspected otherwise, but he rarely got to benefit from John’s study. Now, he glowed with it, pulsing with heady ecstasy that intensified with every moment.

‘More,’ he croaked, rolling his hips. ‘You… closer.’

Trembling anticipation telegraphed between them wherever they touched, and the steady slide of John’s fingers as he withdrew left Sherlock bereft. His body wanted to move – to hunt down its release. His muscles strained with ancient instinct, and he shifted without thinking, snatching John’s wrist and tugging him downwards as he switched their positions, straddling John’s hips.

John’s gasp of surprise only fed the fugue of Sherlock’s arousal, and he reached down, grasping John’s erection. He barely noticed the silken slick of the condom – when John had slipped that on he had no idea – but it was just as well. He could not stop now. Not even if London fell to ruin around their ears.

‘Oh God…’ John whispered, closing his eyes and breathing hard as Sherlock guided him into place. Hot, blunt pressure made him quiver, sweat cooling on his back even as the inferno threatened to devour him from inside.

A slow, steady drag of sensation – fullness and friction: eternity trapped in a breathless flash of need. John did not buck upwards, did not force himself deeper. He sacrificed control to Sherlock, his hoarse moans and clinging hands making it clear that he revelled in his surrender. 

Finally, Sherlock reached the nadir of his descent, his palms braced on John’s chest and his head thrown back. Skin to skin, one inside the other like a lock and key, and Sherlock had never felt so complete – anchored in the present, rather than strung out in a haze of deductions. For a moment, they froze motionless, bodies shuddering in subtle harmony as they relished their unity.

A shift of hips, the furry whip of his tail tracing an arc across John’s legs, and their world shattered into motion. Tentative at first, they soon found their rhythm. Sherlock may be leading the pace, but John was no idle spectator. He touched Sherlock wherever he could, pulling him close for greedy kisses before releasing him to sink down anew, moaning his approval every inch of the way.

Words were beyond them, meaningless in this landscape of plump pillows and firm flesh. Passion told its story in every shift and grind, in the grasp of John’s fingers around the crest of Sherlock’s hips and the surge of him inside: deeper, more primitive…

Perfect.

A growl rolled, thunderous in Sherlock’s chest. His ears flattened, pulled tight to his skull. Their movements grew ragged, burned to ashes as the flames of passion rose to an inferno. 

Then John gripped Sherlock’s cock, stroking upwards even as he plunged in, and all was lost.

Euphoria filled his senses. The salty perfume of John’s sweat mixing with Sherlock’s release tempted his nose. An iron tang coated his tongue from where he had bitten his own lip, and the only sound his ears knew was the rushing roar of his pulse, wild and unfettered.

Then, the reciprocated bliss of John finding his completion. Nestled deep within him, his cock lurched as he spent himself, his hips straining upwards to chase down every last fraction of pleasure.

Peace unfurled, marked only by the rasp of their heaving breaths. Sweat cooled across Sherlock’s shoulders and his thighs ached with the effort of supporting his weight, but he could not bring himself to move. Not when John lay beneath him, wrecked and delectable.

Semen beaded John’s stomach and chest like pearls, and something base within him preened at seeing John so clearly marked as his. His lips were bruised from their kisses and his expression lax in pleasure’s ebb. 

With a satisfied moan, John ran his hand up Sherlock’s arm. ‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’

‘I’m better than okay,’ Sherlock promised, leaning down to nuzzle John’s jaw. Inside him, John’s softening length shifted, and they grimaced in unison, rudely returned to reality.

‘Here, let me.’ John reached down between them, keeping the condom in place as Sherlock eased away. ‘I’ll be right back.’

Sherlock groaned, too spent to argue. Idly, he listened to the sounds in the bathroom, taking in the splash of water in the sink and the clang of the bin: John cleaning himself up. 

Flicking his tail, Sherlock considered grabbing a shower. The lube on his thighs would soon turn sticky, and he had no wish to get any in his fur. However, drowsy and sated, he could not bring himself to rise. Besides, John was true to his word, and with his prompt return, any notion of leaving the bed vanished.

John tugged at the quilt, covering them both in downy warmth as he crawled in at Sherlock’s side. The scent of clean laundry and sex surrounded them, intimate and comfortable. Looping his arm around John’s waist, he pulled him close and buried his face in John’s hair. His more amorous instincts may be satisfied for now, but others still urged him to keep John near.

A purr rolled in his throat, and he felt John turn his head and press his ear to Sherlock’s chest, the better to appreciate the low rumble. Warm fingertips pushed into Sherlock’s curls, caressing the velveteen triangles of his ears with steady, hypnotic strokes.

‘That – that thing you did – with your mouth?’

‘Mmmm?’

‘It was good.’ John went red as Sherlock pulled back to meet his eyes, but he wore his blush with pride. ‘Better than good. Bloody amazing, actually.’

‘Keep going.’ Sherlock grinned, John’s praise a balm to his soul, even as he teased him for it. ‘You’ve not called me fantastic in a while.’ He laughed when John’s fingers danced along his ribs, playful and ticklish. Squirming to get out of his reach, he did not bother to resist when John heaved him close once more, kissing him thoroughly.

Beyond the window, the weak sunlight had succumbed to rain clouds. A brisk shower turned the world to shades of pewter, the droplets drumming their impatience on the glass. Yet within these four walls, all was golden, as if the sun lingered in the gleam of John’s hair and the warmth of his skin.

‘You’re fantastic.’ His repetition sounded like so much more than idle flattery. In those words, Sherlock heard a declaration: something neither of them were ready to give voice, but felt all the same.

This was a side of John he had never seen before, unrestrained and at peace. Even in their quietest moments at Baker Street, he was a soldier on guard, always waiting for battle’s cry. Now, that was gone, sliding out of focus to reveal the man beneath.

The man Sherlock never realised he had been searching for until the day they stumbled into each other’s lives.

His John.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: I do plan to write at least one more for this universe: just a chat between John and Greg about Felisian, er, anatomy ;) If you have other ideas of what you would like to see in the catlock series, or you want to keep up with my projects/writing/life then head on over to [My Tumblr](http://the-pen-pot.tumblr.com)!  
> B xxx


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